Tangled vines of Christmas lights creep along rusted nails jutting
from concrete walls.
The pointed bulbs pierce the heat, burn intense then dim, falter
and repeat. The night stirs
Hot, sun-bleached curtains tied back in knots. The creak of the
dry-rot floor speaks to me,
Honey, I knowed you been busy, but how could you stay ‘way so
long from Someday Isle?

Yes, sit right down gouge out
This blue glass eye of mine

A structure of white-washed cinderblocks house twelve
proselytizing Arethas—moaning,
A heathen prayer circle to rebuke the Red Dress Woman from
Tchula who’s set her mind
Towards staying ‘round awhile. Tried veterans, having seen her
kind before, create their own
Rites of ablution, a quart of Crown to wash vexed minds free of
their sins of men.

Second-sight ain’t a blessin’,
It just messes with your mind.

A warped wooden pew in close proximity to the china bowl, a
tureen overflowing with paper
Noodles and rank gold. I watch moldy figs shake loose scalps at
the youngbloods
Outside, round back. Been near forever since I’ve heard
woodshedding and raw licks
Like that. Might would go to church regular if I could get this
feeling—minus the preaching.

I tell myself the lie
That I’ve told myself before

I stand in the doorway. Red clay tracks trail the threshold. A
blinding fissure cracks overhead,
Backlighting a rusty garden of cars. I wait, count Mississippi’s.
Still counting, I step beyond
The safety of the eaves to gaze upon a feral sky. Hear salacious
fragments of my name. Look,
Find those Tate boys with burn marks for eyes, surrounded by a
biting halo of smoldering moss.

Yes, the very same lie
That I proved wrong before:

Crazzack kakow! A fuse blows. A montage of easy voices in the
dark. Nosy Nita claims
She knows where to find another. Then silence. The horror of
silence. I can’t recall my own
Voice. Light’s restored. My eyes fix upon a detail missed
before. A handscrawled placard reads:
NO DOPING—NO FIGHTING—NO WHORING. No
mistaking, it’s meant for me.

How second-sight got by way of
A blue glass eye don’t make me no whore.

BERNADETTE, VOCALIST, AGE 27: OMAHA, NE

Plagued by this morning, brittle with sunshine,
Though I still don’t agree, I can understand
Monica’s blue dress. Dried stains
Darkening my sheets and bruised mouth
Actually seem like mercy. Now that you’ve gone
Home to that Other who is not me